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Faced with upgrading a roster whose position players were the league’s oldest by nearly a year, Amaro has succeeded in getting Young — not once but twice — if not significantly younger. In December, he traded Lindblom, a reliever acquired from the Dodgers for Victorino, as well as pitching prospect Lisalverto Bonilla to Texas in exchange for 36-year-old Michael Young, whose performance collapsed to .277/.312/.370 in 2012, his worst slash line since 2002. He’ll take over third base in place of Polanco, who to be fair is a year older and about half as durable, but at least able to do something besides imitate a matador at the hot corner. If there’s good news, it’s that the Rangers are paying $10 million of Young’s $16 million salary.

Not Young enough? To rebuild an outfield depleted not only by those trades but by the free agent departure of Pierre, Amaro went out and signed 27-year-old Delmon Young to a one-year, $750,000 deal, with incentives that can take it to $3.5 million. The money is inconsequential enough, but it looks like an overpay for a player who hit .267/.296/.411 with 18 homers last year with a −0.9 Wins Above Replacement Player mark even while being limited to just 31 games in the field, all of them in left. His 2012 wasn’t an isolated incident; once the top prospect in the game, he has been worth all of 1.2 WARP in a career of 3,575 plate appearances, suitable for the short half of a platoon (.307/.341/.483 lifetime against lefties, .275/.307/.401 against righties) but not much more, and that’s without considering his non-hitting problems. In his infinite wisdom, Amaro doesn’t plan to platoon Young, he plans to make him the everyday rightfielder — a position Young hasn’t played since 2007, when he was still a Devil Ray. Oh, and he’s coming off surgery to remove bone spurs in his ankle and has a weight clause built into his contract.

When I first wrote about it, I wondered: It will be interesting to see which way they go with this: The Green Day American Idiot, "fuck you, conventional" wisdom route, with harsh lyricals and simulated on-stage sex (or whatever the Rocky equivalent is– Stallone acting, I suppose), or the Wicked route, with overly fluffed thespians singing gleefully about a rather dark social commentary. I'd vote for the first option, because surely we don't need a Glee'd up version of Gonna Fly Now being played at Flyers games.

Well, judging by the video after the jump, it looks like they went with the latter. Get ready for some falsetto to drum up some faux energy at a sporting event near you.

The musical will be coming to Broadway in 2013. Though Broad Street might be more fitting.

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The bastards at Sports Illustrated, in an effort to break up every relationship in America on Valentine’s Day, released the Swimsuit Edition today. Kate Upton is on the cover, wearing – at best – tea leaves tied together by string. And, returning for another year to prove that God still exists is everybody’s favorite section: bodypainting.

As you may have already heard, this year’s paintees(?) include US Olympic Swimmer Natalie Coughlin, golfer Natalie Gulbis, and U.S. Women’s Soccer player Alex Morgan.

Deep breath.

That sound you hear is cupid firing arrows into the heavens while males across the globe collectively Tebow.

The pictures of Morgan are somewhat disappointing, though, as we learn that it wasn’t just a super-restrictive Nike sports bra doing the dirty work in the World Cup– Alex really doesn’t have any boobs. But, then we realized there was a video of the photo shoot, and all was right with the world.

The moving picture actually includes the following line from Morgan: It was art today that they drew on me, I didn’t feel like I was naked, at all. Sometimes I would get uncomfortable, and then I would look at myself in the mirror and go “oh, I’m fine, I have a swimsuit on.”

Jesus. Obama should hire the evil geniuses who convinced her of that line to talk down Ahmadinejad. That’s the real art here– spinning nudity into whatever she just said.

I've decided to embrace the role of heel that Philadelphia is rapidly casting itself into. Here's why people like underdogs: Because they're jealous of the top dog. It's that simple.

For so long, we've hated New York, Dallas, Boston, and other cities more successful in sport. Why? Not because they were any more evil or nefarious than other teams and cities, but because they always won, always got the best players, and always received the most attention.

We got hard-ons when the Phillies made rare national television appearances in the late 90s and early 2000s. Our city turned into one giant boner in the weeks leading up to Super Bowl XXXIX. And we lost our shit when Allen Iverson stepped over Tyronn Lou. Those were just a few of the brief instances where we felt like we belonged and, in some cases, were sticking it to the man.

That mentality is present all over the sporting landscape.

Fans hate the Lakers, the Yankees, the Cowboys, the Patriots, and Manchester United (futbol, yo). For the most part, these teams conduct business in a similar manner as their competition, only they do it better. The Phillies, Eagles, and perhaps even the Flyers if Homer proves to still be seated on his rocking chair, are all working their way into that pantheon of exalted sports franchises.

Twice in a row now, Philadelphia has bested New York in its quest for a top free agent. The Flyers are among the best, most profitable, and consistent franchises in the league. The Phillies are enjoying the best era in their history. And the Eagles are in the midst of one of the most improbable, bizarre, and fantastic off-seasons their sport has ever seen. It’s a good time to be a Philadelphia sports fan.

I guess this is all just a really long way of telling you that Nnamdi Asomugha is on the cover of Sports Illustrated, just two weeks after Carlos Ruiz graced the magazine’s front page.

The picture is via Philadelphian Bryan Graham, who works for Sports Illustrated and tells us this is the Eagles' 10th cover in the past eight years.

They were only on the cover five times in the magazine's first 50 years.

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It's 6:15 p.m. The locusts with pens and microphones have been swept from the Phillies' clubhouse. It's theirliving room again. Creeping to the center of the room, like a seven-year-old in Dad's pajamas, is their stumpy catcher lost inside their massive first baseman's uniform and cleats. A half foot of Ryan Howard's pant legs droop from Carlos Ruiz's feet. That alone has the clubhouse cackling … but Chooch has more. He has made a career by watching everyone in silence, recording everything. This one's easy meat.

He lowers his backside like an emperor settling onto an invisible throne, imitating Howard's setup in the batter's box, then points the end of Howard's bat at an imaginary pitcher, sighting on his prey like Howie does. Only now Chooch begins tilting his head and squinting, trying to see around Howard's big black war club, then yelps, "Hey! Where ees the peetcher? I can't see him!" and the whole squad's howling.